The Man Who Believed
by einnidmalfoy
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. A year after The Fall, John Watson, at the recommendation of his therapist. decides to return to 221B Baker Street to pack up the remaining of his things. But instead he found what he had been looking for, the man who had his heart.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's note: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and follows and favouriting! I started this fic, being my first, not knowing if anyone would like it. Thank you for being so kind and constructive! _**  
><strong><em>22nd Sep 2012: I came back to rewrite this as some bits were not written very well. So this is the final product. I would be rewriting the rest of the chapters soon and posting the sixth chapter. Cheers.<em>**

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><p>John Watson stood in front of the grave of his best friend. Sherlock Holmes, the one man who gave him everything when he was discharged from his duties in Iraq and took it all away when he chose to step off the roof of St. Bart's. This was the third time he had been here this week. He kept this visits a secret from his therapist after the sixth month.<p>

Two more days, and it would be a year now. A year since The Fall. John could not think about it in any other way. He couldn't call it The Day My Best Friend Killed Himself Right In Front Of My Eyes, could he? It has almost been a year now, and he still could not bring himself back to Baker Street. He could not bear to look at the rooms that once contained (just barely) a man who had a mind faster than anyone he knew, the man who composed complicated scores when he tried to think, the man who lounged about in his dressing gown and stored human appendages next to the milk. John did not want to feel the emptiness of the apartment that would never again hold the life and frenzied energy that was his friend.

John was a man of science, he knew what he saw, he knew that his friend was dead. But somehow, at the back of his mind, no matter how convincing the evidence was, he could not stop the glimmer of hope that arose during the darkest of nights, the hope that Sherlock, that brilliant man, could be alive. And sometimes he thinks that this ridiculous hope was affecting his psyche. He began seeing figures on street corners.

The doctor resigned himself to the fact that he might be going clinically insane. He hope to hell he wasn't, but it is quite hard to argue against the fact that he was seeing a dead person all over London, and that had been happening frequently over the past two months now. He remembered the first time he happened. He had just left his studio apartment, the one Mycroft very generously provided. And was about to cross the road to the library, where he now spends most of his time reading and trying to not remember how Sherlock looked on the pavement outside St Bart's. That was when a familiar figure crossed the corner of his peripheral vision. The thermos of hot tea he was holding slipped through his fingers, hitting the ground and scalded his legs with the contents. By the time he looked up, the figure had disappeared.

John had decided, upon the advice from his therapist, Leia, that the best course of action was for him to get his life together by forming closure on Sherlock's death. He was advised to clear out his things from 221B Baker Street and to move on once and for all. John was hesitant. He felt like he was betraying Sherlock, even though he was no longer supposed to, logically. But when he thought about how he had spent the past eleven months like one of the walking dead, he could not deny that something had to be done. He decided, then, that he would pick up the few possessions he had left in Baker Street and pack the rest into boxes and send them to Mycroft Holmes.

The latter had been strangely quiet of late, instead of being overbearingly concerned like he had been the first six months after, he almost stopped all voluntary communication with John.

Finally, a week later, the day had come for him to pack up what was left in the flat at Baker Street and move on. It was no coincidence that it was also exactly one year after The Fall. John wanted to grieve for his fallen friend one last time, maybe have a good cry and then a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson, who had been nothing but kind to John.

So he trudged up the stairs, the sound of his cane hitting the wooden steps, each step reminding him why he was limping again. John laid his hand on the doorknob and turned. He was greeted with the sight of what it was a year before, it was as if Sherlock would come bustling in any minute. Other than the hazardous liquids that used to be boiling on the bunsen burners, everything was the same. Sherlock's violin was lying in its open case, as if waiting for its owner to come by and pick it up any time. All of Sherlock's scientific equipment still scattered the countertop in the kitchen.

John walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up the skull. The skull that John replaced when he moved in. He noticed, distractedly, that there was no dust on the mantelpiece, in fact, there was no dust on any of the furniture. Mycroft's work. He thought. It was as if time had stopped in the flat for the year, just waiting for Sherlock to shout for tea from the kitchen. John went to sit on the sofa and closed his eyes, remembering 221B, and his mad flatmate, for he wanted to be the last time.

John remembered the first time he entered the apartment with all its eccentricities. He remembered the "neatening up" that Sherlock tried to do during that first visit. He remembered sitting at the armchair near the fireplace, blogging about the cases that they solved, with his friend leaning over sometimes to check on what he was placing onto the site. He remembered the sofa he was sitting on, the one Sherlock often sprawled on while on a case. He would lay there for hours, fingers steepled and being perfectly still, staring off into space, going into his mind palace. Sometimes John thought that he could hear his friend's brain working, just like a hard disk, whirring away while evidence or information was processed.

Then John allowed himself, just a moment, to think about things he should have said to Sherlock. He thought about the feelings he had discovered he had, only too late.

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><p>To be continued<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Thank you for reading this! This is my first one. Really surprised at the number of story alerts I got. Thank you! Would keep updating every few days. Stay tuned! :)**

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><p>As much as John was certain that he was a heterosexual male, over the years, he had discovered that when Sherlock Holmes was in the mix, all bets were off. And he tried to deny it, but he was way past that. Two months ago, on a particularly bad day, he, John Watson, went to a bar where homosexual males were known to frequent. He did not feel any attraction at all to the males there, they were admittedly good-looking. But John never felt the yearning to run his fingers along the cheekbones of those men. He did not want to bury his face in the crook of their necks and inhale.<p>

He admitted this fact to his therapist three months after The Fall. He felt that he no longer had to hide; he had no one to hide it from. Sherlock was gone. He was dead. And admitting that he loved this impossible, brilliant man was like a relief, a burden removed from his shoulders. With this new revelation comes a suppressed regret of every second before The Fall that he did not use to tell his friend how he felt. Hell, maybe it would have stopped Sherlock from killing himself.

John told Leia about all the little things that Sherlock did, the things that he missed now, of all. The way he demanded for his tea in the mornings just the way he liked it, two sugars and three teaspoons of milk. The way he would energetically pace about the room when he was on a case. The frenzied look in his eyes when he reached an epiphany. What John didn't share was the secret smile that Sherlock gave him, just for John, when he was pleased. That was John's favorite look.

The perfect cupid bow lips, sometimes surprisingly sultry when he doesn't get what he wants and sulks. John now admits that at times when Sherlock was being exceptionally trying, he wanted to seal those lips with his, just to shut him up for once. He lamented the wasted time, the time he now knew was limited. He wished he could have told Sherlock how he felt, even if it wasn't requited. And lord knows what that strange man hides behind his guarded expressions.

"It doesn't matter now!" John bellowed into the empty apartment, mad with grief and regret. "He is dead, John, he is dead. It doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't mean anything. Nothing means anything anymore." He held his head in his hands and heaved dry, harsh sobs. He thought about the things he wished to say. And he was in the middle of a speech declaring his impossible love to his dead friend when there was a voice.

"That's where I sit, John."

The army doctor's head shot up. That voice. It couldn't be. It simply cannot be. Could it?

He stared at the figure leaning against the doorframe. swathed in a blue scarf over the familiar coat. The one that he last saw covered in the blood of his friend. He saw those eyes, they were blue now, the unruly curls that nestled against the upturned collar of the coat. The cheekbones that The Woman has remarked upon.

I am truly mad now. John thought distantly. And aloud, he said. "You are officially bonkers now, aren't you, Doctor." And numbly, madly, he went about the packing. He began throwing things into the boxes, first went the papers that were everywhere. And when he was about to put the violin back into its' case, he heard the voice again. It was louder this time.

"John, what are you doing?" came the voice.

John continued in his frenzied packing. "You're not real, Sherlock. I must be so maddened by grief that my chose to conjure you up. "

And to himself, he whispered "Oh good lord, what fresh hell is this?"

"John, I am here. I am not dead." The voice drawled. The voice that had not been heard for the past twelve months. Sometimes John heard the voice in his head, and he was certain that this is a further deterioration of his mental condition. He continued to bury his head in his hands, he couldn't bear to bring himself to hope that the miracle he asked was here. He couldn't bear it if it wasn't true.

John felt a rustle of cloth as the figure that is evidently Sherlock kneeled in front of him. Warm leather gloves held his head, slowly bringing it up to face the man that he could no longer ignore.

He stared into the familiar eyes, the ones that changed color according to their owner's mood. John had seen those eyes turn almost black in anger, as clear as the sky when he was amused. And John could not deny that the warm breath that was against his face.

"But how? I saw you, you had no pulse!" John's voice cracked once more, he felt the hope that he tried to ignore rise up and burst free of his doubts.

Then Sherlock sat down beside John and in true Sherlock fashion, explained how he needed to appear that he had killed himself to protect him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. He explained how he had spent the past year locating Moriarty's three assassins and making sure that they disappeared.

Sherlock didn't mention how he would interrogate them. He did not talk about the soundproof room that was in safehouse that Mycroft procured. He did not talk about the things he did to make them spill the secrets of their master.

But John knew, as he always did. He knew what was left unsaid. And he was touched by his usually insensitive friend and what he left out to protect him.

John had questions, he wanted to ask why Sherlock did not inform him of his being alive. He wanted to ask why Sherlock left him behind when he could have helped. He wanted to ask so many things. But right that very moment, he just felt a huge sense of relief. The dramatic loss of his friend and his quiet return.

"Do you understand now, John? I did what I had to do. And even if I had to choose again, I will do this all over because it would mean that you…that all of you would never be threatened again." When he said this, his face was eerily calm, and in contrast, his eyes were a brilliant blue, blazing in all their intensity.

John was distracted. He had been staring at the bleeding cut on his friend's lower lip. Those cupid bows, ever expressive, continued moving while Sherlock rambled on. John didn't hear a single word. His gaze travelled to Sherlock's face, his hair, his sculpted cheekbones. All he could think of was tracing his lips along them, just to prove that his friend, his heart, was really here.

In his daze, John realized that Sherlock had stopped speaking moments ago and was now gazing at him curiously. The doctor blushed and broke the gaze.

"John." Sherlock began in the voice he used when he was deducing. "You should know by now that when I observe people, I see everything."

John did not like where this was going. Could it be that Sherlock knew his change of heart? Oh hell, of course he knew, I have been so bloody obvious, he thought.

"Judging from your dilated pupils and slightly parted lips," Sherlock paused and actually looked pink in the cheeks, "and the visible outline in your trousers", he continued, with a voice that was huskier than before. He allowed his sentence to trail off and his gaze locked with John's once more.

Embarrassed, John sputtered and grabbed a cushion to hide the physical evidence of his secret thoughts that were obviously no longer secret. He backed away from the force of Sherlock's gaze, which was now intense and slightly feral, one might describe it as hungry, even.

"So let's hear it then, your little speech. The one that you were obviously rehearsing before I alerted you to my presence." Sherlock's gaze was unwavering, and John felt his face heating up. And his heart was racing_. It couldn't be, could it? _He thought.

At some point during this internal crisis that John was having, Sherlock decided to give his flat-mate a little incentive. He closed in against John and nuzzled insistently.

"Give it to me, John. I want to hear it." Sherlock's words were a warm whisper against John's neck, and he nudged him playfully, like a overgrown cat.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: My apologies for the long delay. Had a bit of trouble writing the sex scenes. Wrote freely and ended up with 3 pages filled with the description of Sherlock's eyes and skin and that wasn't any good at all. :P One more chapter to go!**

John was struck speechless. This was highly unusual, even for his unpredictable friend, to be interested in any human emotion.

He also knew that he could never deny Sherlock anything. Not before and certainly not now, especially when he was behaving this way. It was as if his friend was flirting with him, in his own strange way. He also found it very hard, in more ways than one, to resist the sensations of the nuzzling. For a man who never cared much for human contact, Sherlock was surprisingly good at this new task.

Distractedly, he started.

"Well, before you miraculously came back to life..."

"I was never dead, John. But do go on." Sherlock's voice was muffled by John's neck. Lips ghosted over the skin, earning a shiver and what sounded like a groan.

"Bloody hell! Would you stop interrupting!" John soft voice betrayed his mood. Sherlock placed several well-intentioned kisses along the side of John's neck. John forgot what he was going to say as he felt Sherlock's lips brush lightly the sensitive spot at the back of his ear.

"I apologize, John. Do go on." his tone said otherwise. Sherlock had now progressed to little bites along John's collarbone.

"Anyway. I was about to say that I over the past year, I have had to live without you. And I don't know how to anymore. I was so alone before I met you. I could have continued alone if I hadn't. It is preposterous, isn't it? That all I did was spend a year living with you and I can't function properly on my own. " John rushed through his words, he looked at his feet, unwilling to see the condemnation and rejection that he expected to see on his friend's face.

"John..." Sherlock began.

John continued talking like he hadn't heard him. "I understand that you are married to your work and you don't feel like the rest of us do. The dynamics of our friendship will not change. You will go about your cases while I help you."

"John."

This time, John stopped in his self-conscious tirade. It took him effort, but eventually he looked up, into Sherlock's eyes. Instead of the rejection he had expected to find, he found acceptance and a quiet awe that took his breath away.

"John. I care for you. There is no other person that engage my more human sensibilities than you do. Over the past year, I have not spent a day without thinking about you and what you did. Granted, I had Mycroft's tapes, but it just isn't the same. It isn't the same without you force-feeding me. It isn't the same without you by my side. "

John began to ask about "Mycroft's tapes" as Sherlock had expected him to, but Sherlock raised a hand and gently continued while his face rubbed against the fabric of John's jumper.

"You are my light, John Hamish Watson. Life is more bearable and less dull with you around."

Touched and frankly, surprised, John laid his head on Sherlock's, burying his nose in the soft, dark curls.

'So, this is it, then." he added hesitantly, a blush on his cheeks. With trembling fingers, he cupped Sherlock's face and raised it to his, pressing their lips together lightly. It was not only a kiss. It was also a promise, of things to be and thing to come.

What John did not expect was for Sherlock to deepen the kiss by sliding his tongue against his, in erotic harmony. Somewhere along the line, the detective's fingers were wrapped around the back of John's neck, pulling him closer, with a sudden urgency. And as Sherlock sucked lightly on John's lower lip, he let out a moan.

A torrent of emotion fled the cage that John had locked it in over the past year. The hope, the desperate want and the need to touch, taste and love. His fingers began the dexterous feat of pushing Sherlock's coat from his shoulders and unbuttoning the purple shirt that was secretly John's favourite. John needed to feel, to know, with his most basic senses, that Sherlock was really back, that his Sherlock was really here. As his palm rested against the bare skin of Sherlock's chest, John felt his love shiver deliciously. Sherlock pulled back and looked at him, his eyes were dark and filled with want. He looked like a man who was stuck in the desert for days and John was the first sign of water.

John knew that eventually he will be angry. He will be furious that Sherlock did not give him any sign that he was alive. But right now, all he could think about was the fact that this man, his Sherlock, is alive. And that he was looking at John the way he had pictured in the very few good dreams that he have had over the past year.

Sherlock cradled the back of John's neck and whispered, looking into his eyes.

"Next time, John, I will bring you with me. I promise."

Whatever reservations that John had, they were forgotten for the moment. He straddled his lanky flat-mate and touched brought their lips together. This time, it was not gentle or tender, it was passionate, raw and needy. Tongues wrestled, buttons undone. Fingers and lips, pushing, pulling and tasting. Desperate to bring Sherlock closer, John rocked his hips, earning a simultaneous groan from the both of them. _Oh god, that skin. _

Sherlock's dexterous fingers traced the doctor's chest and ended on his belt buckle. A wave of need went through John as he came to realization that not only was the usually aloof Sherlock affected by him. _Him? _Sherlock's fingers were trembling faintly as he undid the buckle and unzipped John. His hands then came up to rest on John's hips and began tugging his jeans off. There were points of color high on both their cheeks now.

"Are you sure you want this, Sherlock?"

"Yes. I am certain."


	4. Chapter 4

"Let's move it to the bedroom, then." John whispered, his breath tickling Sherlock's ears as he spoke those words.

By some miracle, through the need to keep each other as close as possible, they managed to stumble into Sherlock's room, the one room that Mrs Hudson (or Mycroft, as it is) kept clean. The linen was changed every week, the dresser and other surfaces dusted. None of this was observed or commented upon by the world's only consulting detective. Said man was too busy tracing his fingers along the skin of his John's back, his teeth nipping at the neck of the doctor, who was so far gone that he didn't even notice that Sherlock had divested himself of his aubergine shirt and went on to bring himself and John onto the bed in an awkwardly mismatched embrace. Caught in a daze, John thought distractedly about how long he had waited to feel that expanse of skin against him. He reached out, delighted with this new found freedom, but Sherlock stopped him with a slender arm. The army doctor made a small protesting noise that was so obvious in its frustration that it earned a chuckle from Sherlock.

"Listen, John. Before we proceed, as much as I desire, I need to inform you that this is new to be. And I do not have any practical experience with forming human relationships. This...feelings that I have are foreign to me and I might not be skilled in handling certain forms of emotional stimulus, you must know that...oh John, you know how I feel about interruptions..."

The rest of Sherlock's chiding trailed off as John Watson had decided that he had listened to enough of his maddening tirade. Not being able to resist any longer, he placed his hand on the forming outline of his flat-mate's silk boxers and began stroking. The expression on Sherlock's face was instantaneous, his eyes rolled back and his mouth began to move, forming nonsense words. John was very much affected by the newly-discovered power that he held over the usually composed genius. Thought processes went to a halt when Sherlock began to move his hips, gyrating according to the rhythm of John's stroking. Desperate for skin contact, he removed his hand, wanting, no, needing to feel the heat that was Sherlock. The dark-haired man moaned (he moaned! John thought.) at the lost of contact, but it was quickly replaced by a pleasured humming when the hand went past the waistband of his shorts and cupped him, skin on skin.

John was overwhelmed by the way Sherlock's physical reactions. It was interesting, and very arousing to see this man, who was always so guarded, so controlled, to watch him come apart in his hands. John formed his fingers into a fist and tugged on Sherlock's cock, using the pre-cum leaking from the tip as a lubricant, Sherlock groaned, a sound that was like a heightened version of the familiar, quiet growl whenever he put on five patches.

"John, your hand...I need...faster. Hand, John!" Sherlock's voice was low and broken, his need betraying the fact that he was in fact, human.

Gazing down at Sherlock coming undone, John was harder than he ever was since he was seventeen, with his free hand, he palmed his erection, running his thumb over the tip and moaning at the sensations, his eyelids falling shut. It was almost too much, the filthy, animal growling that was Sherlock and the vision before him that would fuel many late night wanks to come. Sherlock was really here.

John gazed down at Sherlock, his Sherlock, his friend, flatmate, and now, lover. He knew that they should talk about this. There should be boundaries drawn, they would need to talk about the future, when they...John did not get to complete the thought, for His partner decided that it was time to return the favor and wrapped his long fingers around the tip of John's cock, shoving the hand that was stroking and instead pumped with a firm grip. John could not think, all that remains was the warm grip that was drawing his very essence to the surface, he was overcame by the pleasure, oh, the friction, and thrusted his hips wretchedly against the movements of Sherlock's hands. It would not be long now. John's right hand, the one that was still stroking Sherlock's weeping cock was moving erratically now, he could no more control his strokes than pause the movements of his hips, a prisoner of pleasure.

And when Sherlock, in his gravelly baritone deepened further by sex whispered,

"Come for me, John. Let go."

It was the last straw, with a sob from the torturous, drawn-out pleasure, John came, spurting over the Sherlock's fist that continued milking his cock until he was done. Bonelessly, John collapsed with his head on Sherlock's pale chest. Tiredly, he noticed that Sherlock had not get reached his climax, but his eyes were closing and the last thing he remembered was Sherlock pulling a blanket over them both and whispering in his ears.

"You need sleep, John, we can continue this tomorrow."


	5. Chapter 5a

John woke to the sun shining in through the half-closed window.

_A dream. And what a dream it was, too._

These were the worst mornings. The ones after the good dreams. And last night's dream was the best of them all. He could distinctly remember feeling Sherlock's smooth, pale skin under his fingertips. John could remember how sated and boneless her went after dream Sherlock got him off.

And then his heart almost stopped when he felt the warmth that ran down the back of his body, and the weight of the arm that was lying across his belly.

_Oh._

"Good morning, John." came the familiar greeting. And the owner of the voice buried his face, sharp cheekbones and all, into the crook of John's neck. The arm around his tightened around his waist. _I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, John. _Those words were unspoken, but they were in the air. And John felt it.

John was about to close his eyes and return to blissful sleep when Sherlock's hips thrusted forward. A blush bloomed over the doctor's cheeks as he remembered that he left Sherlock..well..unfinished when he fell asleep. John was mentally hitting his own head at his own inconsideration when Sherlock spoke sleepily.

"You do not have to feel bad, John. You can rectify the situation, you know." another hip movement was added to emphasize his point.

He lifted Sherlock's arm and turned himself so he faced his dark-haired flatmate. John's felt his breath catch when he was greeted with the sight of the naked consulting detective, looking deceptively innocent lying there with sleep on his face. His gaze fell to the lips that looked like a cupid's bow, the same lips from which the softly spoken _Come for me, John. _were issued.

_Look at you.._John thought..._do you have any idea what I would like to do to you, you infuriating man?_

"No, but I would like to find out." Sherlock's gaze was certain, and there was a hidden heat to his words that promised things. _Hot, dirty, naughty things._

John couldn't resist it any longer and he leaned across the six inches that separated the space between their mouths. He sealed his lips over those plump, pink ones and slid his tongue into Sherlock's warm, wet mouth.

As the doctor deepened the kiss, he moved his body so that now he was straddling the narrow hips of Sherlock. John tangled his fingers in those dark curls and parried against Sherlock's tongue with his own.

The erotic sliding of their tongues against each other brought muffled moans from Sherlock. Eager to please, John thrusted his hips downwards, his cock, now hard and aching with need, rubbed against the long, thick cock of his flatmate. Sherlock hissed at the contact, his back arching and lifting John along with it.

John broke off the kiss, and he bit back a smile when Sherlock let out a noise that was very much like a whine of protest. The good doctor began feathering kisses down the chest of the man beneath him. He deviated from the path and licked a nipple, earning a open-mouth groan.

"Sensitive, John...stop teasing... " Sherlock's words tapered off into a hiss when John continued his southward kissing and started licking a path to his navel and beyond. John was very careful not to touch Sherlock's cock, not wanting to overstimulate him too quickly he place his hands on the latter's thighs and tried to spread it further.

After agonizing minutes spent completing the trail of hair leading from Sherlock's navel to his groin, John stopped abruptly, and Sherlock lifted his hips, thrusting helplessly into the air. Sherlock's head of thrown back, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, a portrait of a victim of torturous pleasure. John's mouth watered when he lowered his gaze to the bobbing, swollen cock that was at eye level. Needing to give Sherlock what he needs, John parted his lips and took him into his mouth.

Sherlock's reaction was immediate, his hips jerked against the bed. Not wanting to lose another moment, John took more into his mouth and swirled his tongue around the head. Pulsing against his tongue, the cock twitched. John took his mouth off Sherlock and sucked on two of his fingers. He replaced his mouth on Sherlock's cock and with his two wet fingers, he probed at Sherlock's entrance. The wetness helped and his digits slipped in with no difficulty.

John stilled his fingers, giving Sherlock some time to adjust to the feeling of being penetrated. The doctor blushed when despite his lust-induced state, for the fact that he had two fingers up the arse of his flatmate.

It must say something about our dear doctor, because his own cock was straining against the sheets and he needed something. Anything.

John started to thrust his fingers in and out of Sherlock's puckered hole, scissoring his fingers to stretch it, in preparation to what was to come.

"John...no more...I need... I need." John obeyed the wordless request, with a sense of pride, that he was the only one to see Sherlock like this. The usually composed and eloquent Sherlock Holmes, all spread out and wordless, because of him. Ordinary John Watson.

Kneeling up, John Watson spread Sherlock's legs wider, almost obscenely so. He pulled a pillow from nearby and stuffed it under Sherlock's hips.

John took a hand to his own cock for the first time that night, the sensation drawing a moan. He stroke himself, using the precum to lubricate the head of his cock.

Leaning forward, John aligned himself to the Sherlock's hole and pushed.

There was nothing gentle about it. Both men were panting hard by now, sweat gleaming on their chests. Steeling himself, John pushed his prick, all at once, into Sherlock.

Sherlock's slender fingers bunched the sheets beside his head and John thought, in the sexually-induced haze, that he'd never seen a sight more beautiful. His cock was buried in Sherlock's writhing body. John thrusted upwards, aiming for an angle that hits Sherlock's prostate, a place that he was familiar with, as a doctor.

And Sherlock fell apart, fingers clawing so desperately for something to hold onto that John reached forward and intertwined them with his.


End file.
